A Lifetime Too Late
by Wuchel1
Summary: This is an alternate version of the scene at the hospital in The Lying Detective. In this version Culverton Smith's attempts at suffocating Sherlock have progressed to a point where it may already be too late for John to save the detective.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. I'm just borrowing and playing.

 **Summary:** This is an alternate version of the scene at the hospital in _The Lying Detective._ In this version Culverton Smith's attempts at suffocating Sherlock have progressed to a point where it may already be too late for John to save the detective.

 **Author's note:** This is my first story in this fandom. Please read and review!

 **Acknowledgements:** A big shout-out to _BullDemon_ for being so kind to beta this story, even though she's never seen Sherlock. All mistakes that remain are all my own.

* * *

 **A Lifetime Too Late**

„Maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact."

Sherlock stared into the eyes of Culverton Smith as his lungs started screaming for air. Even if he wanted to he couldn't tear his eyes off the cold, dark orbs of the man leaning on top of him and cutting off his air supply.

„I like to watch it happen," Culverton said, his face brightening in almost ecstatic anticipation. Sherlock's world was rapidly narrowing down until all that remained were Culverton's eyes which were beginning to gleam with excitement the longer Sherlock's lungs were starved of oxygen, and the feebler his attempts to struggle grew. How could he have miscalculated Smith so badly? All the indicators were pointing at the smug bastard being the kind of deranged pervert that liked to take his time with his prey; who liked to revel in his superiority. For once Sherlock had to admit that he'd been surprised – and at definitely one of the worst possible moments. He hadn't expected Culverton to miss an opportunity to gloat and grow impatient so fast.

Sherlock re-tightened his loosening grip around the arms that were suffocating him and put his last remaining strength into trying to push them off of his face only to have Smith increase his efforts. The edges of his vision were growing alarmingly fuzzy and dark, and he knew that if he didn't get air soon he was going to pass out. Culverton pressed down on his mouth and nose even harder while whispering soothing things that Sherlock couldn't hear anymore. His blood was roaring in his ears, drowning out Smith's voice and the alarms going off on the machines beside his bed. Culverton, the thoughtful murderer that he was, had most likely disrupted the alarm system, making sure that the nurses at the nursing station were kept oblivious to their patient's plight. It was then that Sherlock realized that this could well be the end. But this was not how it was supposed to end.

 _If he thinks you need him, I_ swear _, he_ will _be there._

Mary's voice echoed in his mind as he continued to struggle to stay conscious. Her words had made sense when he listened to her message. But when destroying his body with drugs didn't seem to be enough to draw John's attention, Sherlock turned to Plan B and went out and picked a fight. Just like Mary had said. He put himself right in the centre of a serial killer's attention. And even though his plan seemed to be going spectacularly sideways, he knew he'd do it again. He'd do anything in order to save John Watson from the dark, bottomless pit of depression he was spiralling down and bound to be sucked into.

But now, as it was getting harder and harder to fight off the dark claws of unconsciousness and he could feel his body starting to shut down, a horrible thought crossed Sherlock's mind. _Would John even_ want _to be there?_ Before Mary's death the answer to that would have been – without a doubt – _yes._ But now Sherlock realized that his trust in John Watson's sense of duty and faith towards him might have been a little too overconfident.

People always said that when you get close to death your life starts flashing in front of your mind's eye. However all that Sherlock could see at the crossroads between life and death was the memory of John Watson's face. The way John had looked at him down in the morgue mere hours ago. Grief and loss were so clearly written on his features, but what had struck Sherlock as even more painful than the physical blows John had rained down on him was the pure contempt he'd seen when he looked up at his best friend's face. When Mary recorded that message she didn't know that Sherlock was going to be the reason for her death. _No, Mary. We were both wrong. He won't be there._

Sherlock let go of Culverton Smith's hands. He didn't fight the claws slashing out one final time, ripping his consciousness to shreds. He felt his eyes roll up into his head and heard the machines beside his head beeping frantically until everything faded into silence.

* * *

The elevator ride felt like it took hours and John Watson had a hard time suppressing his urge to pace. It wasn't like there was much room for pacing anyway and he knew that it wouldn't make the car ascend any faster. Instead he had his eyes glued to the LED display, willing the numbers correlating to the floors to increase faster. If someone was going to call for an elevator – this elevator – and thus slowing John down from reaching room 73A he probably would rip their head off.

 _You wouldn't like my plan._

Sherlock. That bloody idiot. Of course John wouldn't have liked his plan. Because getting yourself killed to prove someone was a serial killer was not a god damn plan! "You better still be alive, you stupid git or so help me God," John muttered, not realizing that he was strangling the elevator's stainless steel handle bar in a death grip. He was so angry. And not just because of this – anger seemed to consume him as of late. He was angry at Sherlock for being the insufferable arrogant meddler that he was. At Mary for dying and leaving him and Rosie behind. And at himself. Mostly at himself, but up until now he wouldn't have admitted it. Even though it was quite evident that Sherlock with his twisted reasoning had done his best over the last couple of weeks to reserve himself a spot on one of the slabs downstairs at the morgue. In the end it was him, John Watson, whose actions had put him in that hospital bed. John closed his eyes and grimaced as the memories from just a couple of hours ago replayed in his head. He himself didn't quite know where that rage had come from, but once he started hitting Sherlock he couldn't stop. And he didn't want to think about what might have happened if the orderlies hadn't pulled him off.

 _Let him. He's entitled._

God Lord, how messed up was he to have actually agreed with that sentiment. He almost laughed at how ridiculous the notion of casting Sherlock Holmes out of his life now sounded. He had put him into the clutches of Culverton Smith, and John knew – without the shadow of a doubt – that if Sherlock died tonight he would never – _never –_ forgive himself.

 _I might even move him to my favourite room._

What felt like a cold hand encircled his stomach and squeezed tightly. The Morgue. Smith had openly and blatantly talked about putting his best friend into the bloody morgue. And he had shrugged it off at first. "You bloody idiot," he said out loud, but was unsure who it was directed at. At the moment that term might easily be applied to them both. He was just as much of a dense idiot as Sherlock was. He gripped the bar even tighter and recognized the feeling in his stomach for what it was: worry. He was worried sick for Sherlock Holmes. _A little too late,_ a nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that he should have been worried the moment he'd lain eyes on Sherlock's pale and drawn face as he peered up at him from inside Mrs. Hudson's boot.

The elevator lurched slightly and the doors slit open with a soft _ding_. John bolted out of the car towards Sherlock's room. His heart picked up an even faster pace as he noted that the police officer who'd been ordered to guard the room's door was absent – his hat left behind on a chair beside the door the only sign of the officer's previous presence. John sprinted towards the door and cursed as it wouldn't open. He tried the handle again, hitting his shoulder against the wood but the door wouldn't budge. He just knew that there wasn't any time left – that Sherlock didn't have any time left.

He grabbed a fire extinguisher – and without really thinking about what he was doing - he brought it down hard onto the door handle. The wood splintered. Using the extinguisher like a battering ram, he charged the door and skittered into the room. And for a second the world froze.

Culverton Smith was bent over Sherlock's prone figure. He had turned his face towards the door and his eyes were wide in surprise. He immediately raised his hands off of Sherlock, like touching him had actually burned him. The machines beside Sherlock's bed were going berserk. Alarms were going off, shrilly blaring on top of each other.

The cardiac monitor was continuously blaring and John's eyes widened at the corresponding flat line on the display. "What were you doing to him?" he yelled and rushed forward to pull Culverton off of Sherlock. "What were you doing?"

"He's in distress and I'm helping him," Smith said as John pushed him into the arms of the police officer who had returned just moments before John had broken down the door. "Restrain him now," he ordered, subconsciously reverting to the commanding tone of the soldier he used to be. "Do it."

Culverton struggled against the manhandling, managing to look both indignant and worried. "I was trying to help him."

John didn't believe a word that was coming out of Smith's mouth, but he had more pressing matters that needed his attention at the moment. He stepped up to the head of the bed where Sherlock lay, unmoving. The heart monitor was still shrieking with that blasted continuous beep, and John had to fight hard to retain a doctor's state of mind – detached and focused on the symptoms - instead of that of a friend who had already lost too much. He let his training kick in.

He called out Sherlock's name and placed a finger on his friend's neck on top of the carotid artery. There was a chance that Sherlock's fingertip pulse oximeter had been dislodged during whatever struggle that might have taken place before John busted into the room, causing the cardiac monitor to believe his heart had stopped. But of course, that would have been just too mundane for the detective with a penchant for the dramatic.

"What's going on?" Nurse Cornish appeared in the room. She was out of breath and her eyes visibly widened at the sight in front of her. John looked up from Sherlock, his voice shaking with urgency, "Call a code! Patient presents with no pulse. Get a crash cart and a hard board in here, stat!"

Not waiting for Nurse Cornish' response, John lowered the bed's side rails and pressed the CPR button to make sure it was completely reclined. In order to apply optimum pressure he climbed onto the mattress and knelt beside Sherlock. He placed his hands on top of each other on Sherlock's chest and immediately began compressions. He knew that if he wanted to remain detached and treat Sherlock just like any other patient, looking at his face wasn't a good idea. Yet his eyes were drawn to Sherlock's face. It was an unnerving sight for John to see his friend's features slack in unconsciousness and lacking the wrinkles of concentration that normally seemed to permanently adorn the detective's face. Sherlock's face was even paler than usual, causing the bruises on the left side of his face, and the angry red cut to his brow that John had caused earlier to stand out even more drastically. "Don't do this Sherlock," John said under his breath and forced himself to look away and to concentrate on the resuscitation efforts.

Nurse Cornish returned with two more nurses, carrying the equipment needed to save Sherlock's life. It couldn't have taken them long to respond to the code in room 73A, but by the time John paused the compressions and helped lift Sherlock's body up so the hard board could be placed between him and the soft mattress John was already breathing heavily and the muscles in his arms were trembling. "Do you want me to take over?" one of the nurses asked, but John just silently shook his head and continued rhythmically pressing down on Sherlock's chest after the AED pads had been applied. After making sure that her patient's airway was clear, Nurse Cornish placed an Ambu bag mask over Sherlock's nose and mouth and started slowly squeezing air in the unresponsive lungs.

"Alright, we're getting a signal," the third nurse monitoring the AED announced. "Hold compressions for a rhythm check." John paused and the AED started to beep. "Charging!" John took up compressions again until the nurse ordered, "Clear!" Breathing heavily, John climbed off the bed to make sure he wasn't touching Sherlock's body. "And shock." Sherlock twitched as the nurse initiated the current to shock his heart back into motion. "Get back on the chest." John immediately returned to his task, increasing his efforts. "Great compressions," the nurse commented as she studied the read-out. The AED whined as another charge was building. "Rhythm check in 60 seconds."

John started counting the compressions out loud, and leaned back when the minute was over. He looked hopefully at the nurse's stern face. She didn't look happy. "Clear!"

Another shock went through Sherlock's body. As before, John immediately returned to pressing down on Sherlock's chest. "Do you want me to relieve you, Dr. Watson?" the second nurse asked, and again John shook his head. He needed to do this. "Push a milligram of epinephrine," he ordered. The nurse nodded and went to retrieve the syringe.

 _Don't do this, you son of a bitch,_ John thought almost in desperation. His arms were growing tired and he didn't know how long he could keep this up. _Don't do this._

"Pushing the epinephrine," the nurse announced.

After another 30 seconds that felt to John like hours he paused again so that the AED could perform another rhythm check. "C'mon," he said – the word sounding like a prayer. The seconds stretched like hours.

"We've got a rhythm!"

John released the breath he hadn't realized that he was holding and placed a finger on Sherlock's carotid artery. "I feel a pulse," he confirmed and the relief was evident in his voice. One of the nurses also checked for a pulse in Sherlock's wrist and nodded, "I feel a pulse, too."

"Thank you," John said to the three nurses who looked just as relieved as he felt. He wiped the sweat from his face with a shaking hand. The sound of a steadily beeping cardiac monitor had never sounded so amazing before. He climbed off of the mattress and turned his back towards the room, needing a second to catch his breath and to calm down his nerves. It wasn't the first time that Sherlock Holmes had been the reason for him to come close to having a nervous breakdown. But this episode had been by far the worst. Even worse than when Sherlock had deliberately exposed him to a hallucinogen drug and made him believe that the bloody Hound of Baskerville was on his heels.

"I think he's coming around," Nurse Cornish said and John whipped around. He was both surprised and at the same time really not. Sherlock had always been one stubborn force of nature, and he certainly wouldn't let something boring like cardiac arrest slow him down. John stepped up to the bed and indeed Sherlock's eyelids were twitching. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, hoping that the contact would help ground his friend to the conscious world and called out, "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but there was movement underneath the lids and he slightly turned his head in the direction of John's voice. "Sherlock?" John tried again.

Finally Sherlock's eyes cracked open, just to be immediately closed again with a moan. "Come on, Sherlock. You can do it," John coaxed. Sherlock blinked a few more times before he managed to keep the lids open. John winced at the sight of one of Sherlock's irises being encircled by a dark red sub-conjunctival haemorrhage, giving him the look of someone with heterochromia. Sherlock was clearly struggling with focusing on the face hovering above him. When he finally did manage to focus on John's face he stared at him in confusion. "You came."

John's heart clenched at the surprise in Sherlock's raspy voice. _He thought you were going to let him die._ He closed his eyes – grief and guilt washing over him. _God, I almost did._

Instead he squeezed Sherlock's shoulder and forced a reassuring smile, "Yeah, of course I did." Sherlock's lips twitched into a small, yet relieved smile that lasted for about a second before he clenched his eyes shut and his face twisted in pain. He groaned as a hand went up to his chest. John knew he was going to be quite sore for quite some time. In his efforts to resuscitate his friend he might have even broken a rib or two.

"I was trying to help him," Smith pleaded, still struggling in the police officer's tight grip. At hearing Culverton Smith's voice John's anger returned. "What was he doing to you?" he asked Sherlock, ignoring Smith's evocations of his innocence.

Sherlock shot Culverton a cold look, "Suffocating me."

...

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 _This is where the actual episode picks up again. Thank you for reading!_


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